Things Unsaid
by Hushed Reflection
Summary: They'd done what they'd set out to do. They'd done what people expected of them. They'd carved out quaint little lives in the aftermath of "The War". Why then, wasn't it enough? Harry had no idea what was wrong, but something was missing and he knew of only one person who could help him find it. (Harmony)
1. Carpe Noctem

**Hello, Fanfiction people! This is my first attempt at a fic despite years of reading and enjoying the work of other authors. Please be sure to let me know what you think.**

 **This is a Harmony fic from top to bottom and will be also mildly bashing some of the Weasleys (nothing too horrible, I promise). The rating is set to M as the content in subsequent chapters will likely warrant it. Enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: Does anyone really take this stuff seriously or do we just do it for the pleasure of the tradition? Anyway, I own absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter and Joe Rowling's glorious intellectual property.**

* * *

Anger. Was it anger? Harry was unsure. It was strong, that much was sure. But how could he possibly be angry with Ron? Ron who had done nothing but sacrifice for him. Ron who 'd had his moments, but was undoubtedly one of the best people in Harry's life. So how, pray tell, could the emotion he felt when Ron entered his mind be anger? It likely wasn't, Harry mused. Anger he'd felt before. Rippling currents of primordial rage that threatened to drown him like a man pulled beneath the waves of a vast, dark ocean. Snape, Lestrange, Malfoy, and Riddle. Names that still stiffened his muscles and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A list of villains he couldn't even begin to think of associating his best friend with. So no, Harry thought, it mustn't be anger. If not anger then what, though? Betrayal? That seemed to ring truer, but Harry couldn't possibly think of a reason for it, and it seemed an inadequate descriptor of the feelings swelling within him. No, what Harry was experiencing smacked too much of desire, riddled with too much _want_ for this to be merely betrayal. What then but the one word that brought more fear into Harry than Riddle's name ever had: jealousy. Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, was horribly, terribly jealous of Ronald Weasley. And jealously, well, jealously acts like water in winter as it works its way into the cracks in stone. It is subtle, quiet, and horribly undervalued as a threat to stability. Then, on the coldest, darkest of nights, the harmless water freezes, becoming a hoary sapper intent on leveling the structure it had infiltrated.

* * *

"Oy, mate, you've got to start taking some time off," Ron managed around a mouthful of pasty. His desk looked like the sight of a pastry massacre, crumbs flung across towers of ink stained papers.

"You know I can't, Ron," Mumbled Harry, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting in vain to fight off an oncoming headache. Whether Ron, or the massive amount of backlogged forms was the cause of the inbound irritant, he had yet to determine.

"All I'm saying is that you're no good to the Ministry, my sister, or bloody me if you run yourself into the ground," Ron stated in his best impression of Hermione. It made Harry's skin crawl. He loved the two of them dearly, but ever since the marriage, Ron acted like he was the only person on the planet who knew the "real" Hermione. Every impression, every new inside joke Harry wasn't a part of, every reference of future plans sapped at Harry's increasingly exhaustible source of patience.

"Fine, mate, I take your meaning, but just let it be, okay? There is nothing I can do until these requisition forms are managed."

"Give them to Neville, Harry. They're not part of your job as it is."

"Ron..." Harry stared at him blankly for a moment, expecting against reality that Ron would marshal his admittedly flaky memory. After half a minute of silence, Harry sighed. "Neville is in Finland. You know this. You are heading there in four days to assist in shutting down that Finnish Spiketail breeding ring. We literally spoke about this yesterday at lunch." Ron deadpanned at the mention of heading to Finland and pulled a face that let Harry knew he hadn't been listening at all yesterday.

"Finland? With Neville? For how long?" Harry shrugged.

"As long as it takes, Ron. If you'd been listening yesterday, you'd remember that I told you that Neville sent an owl back asking for assistance. The program is farther along than the initial assessment had placed it. I'm sending you, MacDonnell, Madlaki, and I'm contracting in Charlie as a dragon expert for the shutdown."

"Harry, why?" Ron moaned and slumped over in his chair. "Finland with Neville, Charlie and MacDonnell? Madlaki's an alright bloke, but MacDonnell always smells like peat bogs and too much scotch..." Harry held up a finger attempting to silence the rant before it could develop any farther.

"Mate, I love you, but if you complain one more time," The finger became a hand as Ron opened his mouth to protest. "I will pull rank and have you transferred to your father's department." Ron's eyes widened at this and he settled back into his seat, silent. That silence, draped over the two of them like a blanket of snow, lingered for far longer than Harry had expected it to. For a moment, he wondered if he'd overreacted and began to form some words of apology.

"Fine. That's just... fine, Harry. See you when I get back." With that, Ron got up stiffly, threw on his long coat and strode out of the room without another word. Harry sighed again, realizing he'd been doing a lot of that lately, and sunk his head into his hands. Proportionality had been something he'd been struggling with lately. It seemed to him that the more on his plate, the worse his ability to respond reasonably to vexing situations. The poor Weasley clan had been feeling the brunt of this neurosis more than any others lately. Whether it was Ginny's incessant need to have the "baby talk", Molly's not-so-subtle digs about moving closer to the Weasley homestead, or Ron's... well... "Ron-ing", it seemed that it was now beyond Harry's ability to put on a smile and soldier on.

Shaking himself out of his funk, Harry fingered the stack of requisition forms in front of him. "Requisition Form 26b: Bezoar Stones and other Anti-Poison Ingredients" topped the list. Flipping through the pages, giving each a cursory glance, Harry found himself agreeing with Ron's assessment. The twelve-hour days were draining Harry's passion and focus for his job. Being an auror had always come with a galvanizing purpose and drive, but lately, the responsibility associated with his promotion to head of the department had taken him away from the things he loved. Perhaps, Harry thought, that was why he had been so cross with Ron just now. He would have traded places in an instant, flying off to Finland with all the enthusiasm that Ron seemed to lack. The field was where he belonged and he felt like he couldn't be any farther from it. Images of "The War" danced behind his eyes, taunting him with a rose-colored recollection of those months on the run with Ron and Hermione. Cold logic forced Harry to acknowledge that for most of that time, he was miserable. Cold, constantly hungry, and always alert to the sounds that echoed outside of the tent, it was a trial which he had just barely managed to make it through. Yet, at the same time, it was impossible to remember those months without having the feeling that there was something truly special about that time. So close to his mortality, Harry had felt alive in a way he hadn't in the six years since. It was that resurgent sense of life and his lack of it that begged conversation.

He wanted desperately to talk to someone who understood what he was feeling. He and Ron obviously needed some time apart after their previous conversation and, if Harry was being honest, Ron wasn't the person to talk to about this sort of thing. Ron had been brutally honest in the years since the war about his distaste for the events during their "Seventh Year". In the end, Harry knew there was only one person he wanted to talk to.

* * *

"You know he's very cross with you, Harry. I haven't seen him like that in a very long time." Hermione fixed Harry with a look of mingled concern and exasperation as she sunk into the armchair across from him. They were sat in a couple of overstuffed leather-back armchairs next to a fireplace at a little pub in Windsor. The two couples had been frequenting the place in the years after the war. It was a muggle area for the most part and provided the group with a degree of anonymity they couldn't get anywhere in the Wizarding world. Sipping on the cider Harry had ordered for her before she arrived, Hermione raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Want to tell me what happened? Ronald wouldn't say anything other than a mumbled, 'Bloody Harry and his stupid bloody power trip'."

"My bloody power trip? If he would have just listened-," Harry stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Hermione, Ron pulled the same nonsense he always does. Unless I'm talking about the Cup or food, I might as well be conversing with an empty chair." Harry spun his empty pint glass between his index finger and his thumb absently while staring at the flickering flames.

"Harry, I know he's difficult at the best of times. Trust me." She pulled a small knowing smirk. "I promise I'll talk to him about listening if you promise to try and be a bit more patient with him." She flicked Harry playfully in the forehead, trying to grab his attention. "Deal?" Blushing slightly as he realized he'd just been about to do to Hermione what he'd been so upset with Ron about, he smiled back at her.

"Deal. How's work?" Hermione shrugged and looked away dismissively.

"It's fine."

"Doesn't sound fine." Harry cocked his head to the side slightly affecting a faux aura of concern. "What's wrong, 'Mione? Are the kids being mean to you? Won't listen to their teacher? Charming your books to make rude noises when you open them?"

"You're a prat, you know that, Mr. Potter?" She shot back at him, but a smile cracked the corners of her mouth. "No, it isn't the kids. They're fine. I just... I don't know, Harry. I thought that teaching would be everything I'd ever wanted. All the time in the world to continue my studies and help pass on knowledge to the next generation of wizards? My dream, right?"

"I would have thought so, yeah. You'd been wickedly successful with Ron and I." She laughed and shook her head.

"I'd say that remains to be seen." Harry affected a mock expression of shock and outrage which Hermione returned playfully. The two of them, even more so than he and Ron, had managed to remain the teenagers they'd been at Hogwarts when they were together. There was a timeless quality to their friendship that didn't seem to be affected by the tribulations of adulthood. Even if they hadn't seen each other in a week or two, a little banter would send them travelling straight back to that red and gold common room. "I'm just..." She shook her head and shrugged again, "I don't know."

"Bored? Unsatisfied? Feeling like the most important things you'll ever do, you've already done?" Harry offered, his smile taking on an aspect of self-awareness that came across a slightly sad. Hermione's eyes lit up and he knew he'd hit the mark.

"Ehmm... Yes. Quite, actually." She looked slightly embarrassed and Harry felt a little guilty for not being a bit more tactful. Hermione looked uncomfortable and that was the last thing he wanted.

"Sorry, 'Mione. I've been feeling the same way. Guessed you might be too." Harry reached across the small table and touched her hand with his gently in a gesture of apology.

"Really? Head Auror is something you'd dreamed about for years. I remember talking to you about it at length over more than a few of these," She gestured to the pints. Harry shrugged again.

"It's... I don't know. I just thought it would be... more. Don't ask me 'more what', because I honestly couldn't tell you. I've been trying to put my finger on it for months."

"Yeah..." Hermione mused and looked at Harry with eyes that spoke of intimate knowledge of that feeling. The two of them sat for a while, not talking, but staring at the fire. Harry got up and grabbed two more pints when Hermione had finished her cider and the two sat and drank in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable, but certainly pregnant with something neither of them could put words to.

"Do you think it broke us?" Hermione asked after an indeterminable amount of time in reflection.

"'The War?'" She nodded. "In what way?"

"I don't know, really, Harry. I just... Do you think that it changed us, somehow? Growing up like that?"

"Maybe, I don't really know."

"I feel like we are doing everything everyone told us would make us happy." Hermione fingered a lock of her hair self-consciously. The conversation was moving into uncomfortable territory and both of them could feel it. They both knew that there were emotional scars left over from the war that hadn't healed, that wouldn't. It was a conversation they'd had only sporadically across the past few years. Hermione sighed and fixed Harry with a stare that bespoke raw honesty. "I'm not happy, Harry."

"Neither am I."

"Why? What haven't we done? Excellent jobs, sturdy relationships, financial security, and in your case, overwhelming renown." Harry snorted at the last addition and rolled his eyes at Hermione to which she gave a small knowing smirk. Harry waited for a minute, collecting himself before responding.

"I've been thinking about it a lot. It's one of the reasons I asked if you wanted to pop down for a pint." He took a second and structured his words. "I've been thinking about the Forest of Dean a lot."

"What about it?" Harry shrugged in partial response.

"That it was the last time I felt... alive? I don't know. I think that's a poor word for the feeling, but I don't know a better one."

"We were miserable."

"We were."

"We were hungry. Tired and borderline obsessively paranoid."

"Yeah."

"If we'd messed up even once, neither of us would be here right now."

"Absolutely true."

"It was us against the most powerful dark wizard in centuries."

"Don't have to remind me."

"Do you want to go back?" Harry looked at her sideways.

"Go back where?"

"Go back to the forest." There was a redness creeping up Hermione's neck slowly. Harry could see it along the collar of her white button up.

"The two of us?"

"Yeah."

"What about Ron?"

"He's in Finland. And he wasn't there. Not then."

"Hermio-"

"Harry, don't. I don't want to hear it."

"What about Ginny?"

"What about her?"

"'Mione..."

"Harry, we're just going on a camping trip."

"You know that's not what she's going to see."

"I could not care less about what Ginny Weasley thinks."

"I know you two have your problems, but-"

"Don't, Harry. You're bordering on a ludicrous level of hypocrisy if you finish that sentence." Her the infectious redness had spread to her cheeks. This was a Hermione he'd forgotten existed. Hungry. Awake. "Alive". The silence crept back in. Nothing like the blanket of snow with Ron, or the somber reflection of a few minutes prior. This silence was thick. Harry felt like he could reach out and touch it. Felt its weight on his chest. And at that very moment something lit on fire in his veins. Like an ember landing on a pool of petrol. Without saying another word, Hermione got up, put on her coat, and drained her cider all while keeping her eyes locked on his. She was at the door to the pub before he'd even made to stand up. One hand on the door, she turned around and looked at him again. He nodded ever so slightly and saw her intensity crack for a second under the pressure of relief before being swallowed up again. When the door closed behind her, Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

* * *

 **There we are, folks! Hope there is some interest in the story, but I'm fairly committed to continuing it regardless. I love the idea of Harry and Hermione struggling under the weight of success and being forced to come to terms with the reality of the subjective nature of happiness. We'll see what type of trouble that gets them into. ;)**


	2. Until Next Time

**Chapter 2! This story has me thinking about it all day and I can't wait to get to writing it so expect more without too much delay. This chapter is relatively short and but is ancillary to the main story (which will take place in the Forest of Dean starting next chapter!). Enjoy and feel free to drop me a message letting me know what you think about the fic and where you'd like to see it go from here! 3  
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The winter air froze Harry's breath as is exited his lips in a thin, controlled stream. Here, outside his own home, he stood frozen; a man paralyzed by a storm of emotions surging inside his chest. In the end, it was the image of that final look that pushed him over the edge and forced his hand to grasp the doorknob.

"Is that you, love?" He heard Ginny's voice echoing from the direction of the kitchen. The unctuous scent of steak and ale pie wafted his direction and Harry felt a pang of indecipherable emotion coarse through his body, making him slightly nauseated. He opened his mouth to call back a response, but despite efforts to summon up the words, he remained silent. Silence seems to be a theme today, thought Harry sardonically. With deliberate steps, he inched his way towards where Ginny's voice had issued forth from.

As he turned the corner from the living room and entered the kitchen, he caught sight of her. An image of domesticity, Ginny Weasley was dressed in a knee-length floral print dress covered in an apron emblazoned with "Red-Heads Do It Best". She beamed a smile his direction and gestured proudly towards the food. There was a radiant pride in her eyes that Harry couldn't help but find both endearing and profoundly sad. It also served to increase the soon to be overwhelming feeling of nausea in Harry's stomach. After taking him in for a second, Ginny's expression shifted almost instantaneously. Writ hard across her soft features was the unmistakable suspicion he'd begun to associate her with lately.

Ginny was not particularly confident when it came to their relationship. He knew that part of her had always feared that Harry had made a mistake when he'd said he'd loved her. That one day he'd say it was all a joke and that he'd never cared for her in the first place. The long hours at the Ministry had begun to erode the small amount of security she'd gained from their engagement and subsequent marriage. Every minute that ticked by on the clock that he wasn't home was another opportunity for infidelity and betrayal. Contrary to her paranoia, Harry had always cared very deeply for Ginny. He'd even loved her for a time. But love, as most discover the more experience with it they have, is not eternal.

"What's wrong, Har?" He barely held back a grimace. He hated hit that she shortened his name. She thought it was endearing, but he'd always found it repugnant. He cast a glance down at the lapels of his jacket, brushing absently at some imagined dust mite. As conflicted as he was about he currently feelings about his wife, and as much as he knew he wasn't about to do anything _wrong_ , Harry still couldn't manage to begin explaining. Finally, after an increasingly steely silence, Harry cleared his throat and caught Ginny's eyes.

"I'm going out, Ginny. I don't know when I'll be back." He left it at that, hoping against hope that she'd let it be. That, perhaps just this once, she wouldn't demand an itemized itinerary for his every excursion outside the house. Her eyes, which had been narrowed in suspicion, were now slashes so thin, he wondered if she was still able to see him at all.

"Harry Potter, how dare you. How fucking dare you walk through that door, take a look at the meal I spent all day cooking, and feed me that-" It wasn't a question. It never was. Ginny had no interest in hearing what he had to say now. This was her time to let loose her insecurity and he was the target. 'Not tonight,' Harry thought to himself, his mind filled with thoughts of the forest. He thought if he tried hard enough he could smell the small campfire burning and his lips curved gently into a secret smile, against his better judgement.

"Ginny, I'm leaving. I'm sorry that it's as last minute as all this, but there's no avoiding it." She paused her verbal onslaught and pivoted. He knew exactly what she was about to ask. It was as if the two of them were acting out roles in a play they'd rehearsed a thousand times and neither could be bothered to improvise anything new.

"Where are you going, Harry? And with whom?" Harry swallowed heavily, took a deep breath and readied himself for her response.

"I'm going away for awhile. I don't know where yet." There was absolutely no way he was telling her where she could find him. The Forest of Dean was large, but not nearly large enough to risk Ginny ruining the escape from this life he'd found himself trapped in.

"With. Who. Harry."

"Hermione, Ginny. It has to do with 'The War'." Pure violence danced behind Ginny's hazel eyes. This is what Harry had been waiting for. Hermione was the sorest of subjects for Ginny. A product primarily of Molly's incessant doting, Ginny had harbored a simmering jealousy for Hermione for years. At one point, it had gotten so bad that Ginny had started turning down invitations from her family to gatherings just because she couldn't bear to be around the bushy-haired brunette. All that animosity came bubbling up to the surface, inflamed by the fuel which was her possessive paranoia for Harry's affection.

"No, Harry. No. Just no. I absolutely forbid it."

"You're not forbidding me anything, Ginny. If I'd known you were going to carry on this way, I wouldn't have come home in the first place." A lie. He'd needed things from the house before leaving and part of him refused to sneak out in the night like a little boy.

"Harry, don't you dare do this to me. Don't I mean more to you than this?" Her face had snapped directly from an anger-infused scowl to a pleading pout. She was a true professional manipulator. If she'd had more drive to succeed on her own, she could have been a top-tier mummer.

"I'm not doing anything to you, Ginny. I'm taking a few days to myself to get my head right."

"With _her_."

"Yes."

"I can't believe you. Why aren't I enough, Harry? Can't you tell me why I'm not enough for you?"

"For this?"

"Yes, Harry! Why can't I help you get your 'head right'?" In that question Harry caught the first genuine emotion he'd gotten from Ginny all night. Fear. Fear of inadequacy. Fear of losing Harry's love. It sent pangs of pain through his heart, but nowhere near enough to make him reconsider his decision. Gently, Harry approached his wife and placed a hand her cheek. Staring into her eyes, he sighed deeply and uttered the unvarnished truth.

"Because you weren't there." With that, Harry turned on his heels and made for the stairs to gather some particular items he wanted for the trip. By the time he'd made it to the second floor, he couldn't hear the sobbing anymore.

* * *

 **Heavy stuff, right? But the doldrums of love always hurt the most. At this point, I really imagine Harry isn't planning on betraying his marriage to Ginny, nor do I think he recognizes fully what is happening with Hermione. All he knows is that something with his situation is wrong and needs fixing. We'll see where he tries to find that repair. ;)**


	3. We Don't Talk Anymore

**Chapter 3! I'd like to thank two individuals (Vivian Bella Cullen and zoroth395) for their lovely reviews. You don't know how much that made my day. This fic is definitely a project I'd been mulling over for a good long time now and I'm super stoked that some of you are enjoying it! So, in the spirit of brevity, enjoy. 3**

* * *

Harry's eyes were closed when he apparated and, for a long moment, he held them shut tight. As such, the frost that crept over his lenses went momentarily unnoticed. Only seconds ago he'd been throwing essentials into a duffle bag, trying to pretend he couldn't hear Ginny's sobbing. Not wanting to infect whatever this was that he was doing with the remnants of his crumbling marriage, Harry forced himself to let go of the anger and frustration, the sadness and guilt. He imagined the discomforting emotions bleeding out of him and collecting in a small pool around his boot-clad feet.

Almost as soon as he'd purged himself, before he opened his eyes, he caught scent of a campfire. Emotionally overwrought by the past few hours, he almost barked out a laugh. She'd gotten here first. Of course she had, Harry thought to himself. How he'd every entertained the notion that he would be more punctual than Hermione Granger, he had no idea.

Harry removed his ice-crusted glasses, tucking them into the interior breast pocket of his snow dusted pea coat and took in his surroundings. That they'd both known where to meet spoke volumes about what was happening tonight. Harry stood at the center of a small clearing about the size of a small barn house. The forest floor was covered in a thick layer of perfectly white snow that, with the light of a near-full moon, seemed to cast the area in an ethereal glow. The branches of the tall firs sagged heavily with their burdens of snow and seemed to almost encase the clearing. About six meters in front of Harry was The Tent. Not some facsimile of the shelter they'd depended on so surely all those years ago, but the real thing. He hadn't seen it since The War had ended and part of him had assumed it had been lost in the rest of the war time paraphernalia they'd accumulated and had no use for afterwards. The sight of it stripped the past six years away from Harry's soul like so much cheap wallpaper.

The fire he'd smelled a moment ago flickered and popped gently a few feet from the flaps, two empty camping chairs settled into the snow beside it. Slowly, so as not to make any noise, Harry approached the leftmost of the two chairs and settled into it. Setting his bag down next to him, he stared into the fire and waited. The next five minutes felt both instantaneous and eternal, but eventually his silent reverie was interrupted by the sound of rustling canvas. To her credit, or likely the detection wards she'd placed around the clearing, Hermione made no noise of surprise as she took her seat in there chair next to him. Unable to help himself, Harry turned his head and took her in.

Perfection wasn't an applicable word to be used on Hermione Granger tonight, Harry decided. He was fairly sure that a word had yet to be coined that would describe adequately how magnificently she had captured the essence of this excursion and their need for it. She wore the same jeans and grey jumper that she'd worn that day all those years ago. It fit her just the same as it had then; Hermione hadn't changed much physically over the past few years. The combination of her and the tent were almost too much for Harry to process.

Harry knew his feelings must have made their way onto his face because the corners of Hermione's mouth curled up ever so slightly.

"Tea?" A gloved hand extended offering a steaming mug of black tea. Harry took it wordlessly and smiled back, swiveling his head back around to stare at the fire once again.

"You really are something else, 'Mione." Harry uttered softly after a few minutes of quiet contemplation.

"What could you possibly mean by that, Harry?" She looked over at him, batting her eyelashes coquettishly.

"I had no idea you'd kept it."

"The tent or the jumper?"

"Both? Either? Did you… How long…" As much as he needed to ask, the words stubbornly refused to arrange themselves. The beautiful thing about friendships like the one he had with Hermione, however, was that, more often than not, actual words were the least important part of a conversation.

"Longer than I'd care to admit. Likely even longer before I realized it."

"But why keep them? You're not really the hoarding type."

"I don't know, honestly, Harry. They were… _relics_ , I suppose." She blushed slightly at this, though the color was barely distinguishable on her already rosy cheeks. "I know that makes me sound awfully full of myself, but I just couldn't bring myself to part with something that was such a part of me. Of us." Harry shook his head.

"No, Hermione. I…" He let out a long sigh, running his hands through his hair and looking out into the darkness of the trees beyond. "I get it."

"I know you do. It's why we're here."

"Is it?" Hermione cocked her head at the question and waited for Harry to continue. He swung his arms out in a sweeping motion, gesturing to the clearing they were sat in.

"Too much?"

"No. And that's the issue, isn't it? It's not too much." Hermione shrugged her shoulders, attempting and failing to affect an air of indifference.

"When I think of the time we spent here, it's always of this place." She looked away from him as the sentence trailed off. They sipped at their tea for a while longer, contemplating all the things she hadn't said. Eventually, despite the understanding they obviously shared, Harry knew they'd have to stop being so evasive if they were going to move past this moment.

"Nothing happened that night, Hermione." If she could have stared any harder at the darkness surrounding them, she would have.

"No, I guess it didn't." Harry bit his tongue, knowing that whatever response he'd give to that statement wouldn't be the right one. Instead, he channeled the emotion of his adolescence and opted for guilt.

"If he hadn't come back the next day, I'd be dead."

"I know that, Harry…" Hermione's shoulders sunk and she seemed to deflate slightly, accepting, if not admitting defeat. Something about her attitude sent a current of irrational anger through Harry. He forced his face impassive.

"Why'd you do it, Hermione?"

"Do what?"

"You slagged him off for a while after he got back, but it wasn't long before you two were wrapped up in each other." Her head whipped around and he could see the anger he felt inside reflected in her eyes. Harry shrugged at her, "Just curious."

"Fuck you, Harry Potter."

"Pardon me?"

"No."

"No what?"

"No, I will not pardon you." Harry would swear that, for a moment, he could see flecks of white hot flame danced across her irises. It could have been the reflection from the campfire, but with Hermione, he could never be sure. "Why don't you tell me, Harry. Give me your best guess." She crossed her legs, cradling her mug in both hands and took a long sip, all while maintaining her locked gaze.

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, regretting his mild antagonism. This awkwardness was short lived as his own anger seized him the second it smelt his hesitation. With a brutally smug smirk, he offered up his best guess, "Because he was the one you'd always wanted?" She scoffed and a small laugh escaped her lips against her wishes. Harry knew that this conversation would last just as long as neither of them uttered his name.

"If that is honestly your best guess, I _was_ a pretty rubbish teacher."

"Well then tell me, 'Mione. Explain it to me, because I still don't understand it."

"Explain what, Harry? That Ron was there?" He flinched at the name-drop and she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh so Voldemort was fine, but Ronald Weasley is too much? Grow up, Harry." The anger flared inside his stomach and he snapped back at her.

"Because he was there? Smartest witch of our generation and that is your excuse for marrying someone like… _Ron_?!" He almost screamed the name, his response distorted by a combination of guilt at the use of Ron's name and anger at Hermione's answer.

"What. Do. You. Want. Harry?" She thrust each word into him like a knife.

"I want you to give me a real bloody answer, Hermione. One that makes sense." She pulled at the mass of tangled curls that made up her glorious mane. Frustration was writ in large print across her face.

"What do you want from me, Harry? To tell you I made a mistake? To take back the past six years?" She shook her head and stared into her mug. Harry spotted a soft wetness forming in the corners of her eyes that obliterated his anger and guilt into a thousand tiny pieces. "I can't do the latter, Harry. I wish I could, truly, but I can't." Hermione's said in a whisper.

"I'm sorry, 'Mione…"

"No you're not." Harry closed the gap between the two of them in an instant. It would have been slower to apparate to her. He gathered her face in his hands and tilted it up to meet his.

"I am. I promise." Hermione's smile was small, but sincere. Harry ran a hand through her tresses, and her sadness ebbed away just long enough to lock eyes with him. Those few moments unlocked a vulnerability in him that he realized he'd been hiding beneath that anger and frustration. An emotion so tightly bound to Hermione that he wondered for a moment how he'd ever spent a day without her. There was a small part of him that needed her in a very real way. In that instant Harry knew what all this was. What the source of his morose discomfort of the past couple of years had been. The farther he had drifted away from Hermione, the more uncomfortable he'd been. The longer he spent away from her, the more he and Ginny had fought. Each little joke Ron made about their relationship had chipped away at the walls of ignorance Harry had built around his feelings for Hermione. In one fell swoop in a pub in Windsor on a cold winter's night, Harry had triggered the events that had shattered the illusion that his subconscious had so carefully crafted over the past six years. The flood of emotions that washed over him were almost too much to bear and he stood up, removing his hands from her cheeks.

"I'm going to go get some more wood for the fire." The words had left his mouth and his feet had started carrying him away. They were hollow, empty words and they both knew them for the excuse they were. Harry could feel her watching him wordlessly as he faded into the darkness. Shadows from the flickering fire danced across the stack of logs next to the door of the tent, catching the image of Hermione as she sighed deeply and brushed the corner of her eyes with her woolen gloves.

* * *

 **I truly hope you all enjoyed the first chapter in the Forest of Dean. I'd originally planned to do the first night all in one chapter, but in the writing of it I realized that one wouldn't do it justice. The following chapter will likely wrap up Night 1. Don't forget to leave a review if you have enjoyed the fic thus far and have any comments or criticisms. I love to hear them!** **3**


	4. Mine

**Wow, just wow. Thanks so much for the outpouring of support, folks! It's be a real pleasure reading all of your comments and if I wasn't aching to write more for this fic, I certainly am now. However, I'd like to address a few housekeeping matters first.**

 **Firstly, I'd like to mention that this story is not AU, but I have no interest in keeping strictly to cannon from either the books or movies. For the most part this likely won't be an issue, but some things may not sync up properly and that likely is a result of my twisting of the original fiction to better suit the current story. I hope that doesn't ruffle too many feathers.**

 **Secondly, I've become very interested in the idea of assembling a list of songs that I have been listening to while writing. My writing, and I hope it shows, is heavily influenced by mood and atmosphere. To that end, I think that the music that has served as a background for me might help "set the stage" for you folks. Let me know if it something you'd like me to continue doing, or if I'm wasting my time. If it exceptionally well received, I'd also be amenable to explaining some of my thought process behind song selection (but I am likely getting far ahead of myself). ;P**

 **Music for Chapter 3:**

 _ **Charlie Puth – We Don't Talk Anymore ft. Selena Gomez (Our Last Night Cover)**_

 _ **Anatu/Matthew – Bleach**_

 **Music for Chapter 4:**

 _ **Jessie Siren – The Sway**_

 _ **Phoebe Ryan – Mine (Win & Woo Remix)**_

 **With those two things out of the way, I hope you enjoy this chapter half as much as I did while writing it.**

* * *

There was no wood in Harry's hands when he returned to the clearing, nor was there a Hermione by the fire. He'd expected as much. They'd been far too close to confronting some extremely inconvenient truths for her to stay put. Harry would bet the entire contents of his bank vault at Gringott's that she was pacing a line into the carpet floor of the tent.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here, Harry…" He whispered to himself. The trees that had seemed so comforting just a few moments ago now felt oppressive. An overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia gripped at his chest, tightening his breath and spiking his heart rate. This was too much. He'd made a mistake coming here. Why had he wanted to come back to this miserable place to begin with? All of these thoughts ransacked Harry's mental and emotional stability.

The odd thing was, all of the anxiety mounting inside him seemed to trigger something deep within his subconscious. He cared right now. Really, truly cared about what happened in the next few minutes. Everything happening tonight _mattered_. Harry was fundamentally invested on his most basic of levels in the outcome of his next few conversations with Hermione in a way that he hadn't been with anyone in years. All of his and Ron's banter, all of the squabbling with Ginny, all of the family chats with the Weasley's, none of it had ever really mattered. They were empty words meant to fill the empty space that was left in the wake of the devastation caused by The War. Part of George, Molly and Arthur, sweet as they might be, would never forgive him for Fred. Ginny would never understand being left behind during the hunt for the horcruxes. Ron would never come to terms with the guilt of his abandonment. It was because of those things and more that they'd all been stuck in a ridiculous pantomime of their relationships before that last year.

"Not her, though, you bloody idiot." Harry ground his knuckles into his eyes, trying to fight off a wave of antipathy for his ignorance. He thought he was beginning to understand just how deliberately blind he'd made himself to that particular truth.

He was inside the tent flaps in an instant, desperate to be inside before another wave of anxiety surged up and overwhelmed him. She stood with her back towards him, the light of the hung lanterns casting their shadows on the far wall, just barely overlapping. The inside of the tent was different than Harry remembered it. So far, it was the only difference he'd noticed since arriving and was struck dumb for a moment by its significance. It wasn't subtle and sent a wave of hot, sticky warmth through his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and failed categorically. The anxiety was back and had cut his previous momentum to pieces.

It wasn't Harry that made the next movement, as Hermione flicked her wrist, dropping her wand into her hand and tapping on a radio sat on the table to her left. Soft electronic music filtered through the speakers and filled the space in between them. With her other hand, Hermione reached up and tussled her hair and let it splay across her shoulders. Harry brushed his hand delicately through them, having no recollection of crossing the distance from the entrance to her.

"I like the alteration." The words came out from a place deep in his throat, sounding entirely almost foreign to both of their ears. It was enough to turn her around.

"Mmm. Do you now?"

"Yeah." Hermione inhaled deeply and placed a hand on Harry's chest, sliding inside his coat and up towards his neck. Paralyzed, he stood in place focusing on remembering to breathe as her feather soft palm came to rest on his cheek.

"Do you know why we're here, Harry?"

"Yes." It was little more than a growl, barely distinguishable from bestial noise, but Hermione seemed to have no issue identifying it. Her eyes _burned_ with intensity and Harry felt consumed by it. With the heat he felt building inside him and the surprising sound of his own voice, he knew he couldn't look too different either. Her control of the situation felt… right. His earnest devotion, her brilliant construction. It was the way they'd always been.

Harry's hands snaked their way up from his side and rested delicately on her hips, thumbs brushing at the belt loops on the waist of her jeans. Hermione sucked in an involuntary breath and they couldn't help but smile at one another, a blush blossoming on her cheeks. For all her planning, he'd always been the one to make the push. The first to mount the trench and charge.

"I don't remember you being quite so warm the last time we danced, 'Mione…" Harry breathed into her ear, switching slowly over to the other one, brushing his nose lightly against hers on his way. "If I remember correctly, you were awfully cold…" Tugging gently on her hips, Harry brought her closer to him, collapsing the distance between them.

Hermione bit her lip and pressed her face into the crook of Harry's neck.

"You're right. I wasn't." Her voice was as delicate as his was rough. A ludicrous part of Harry worried that he'd break it, shatter that delicacy with his own hunger. The thought lasted less than a second before he felt her teeth nip at his skin. An almost guttural chuckle escaped his throat and he banished the concern, remembering who he was pressed up against.

They moved together for a while, not really dancing, just swaying. Exploring each other without the guilt and frustration that had plagued them six years ago. This wasn't revenge or betrayal. It wasn't spiteful or self-centered. Ron and Ginny simply didn't exist here.

When the slow song faded out, it was replaced by one with a faster tempo. As tuned into the rhythm of the music as they were, the pair began to pick up the pace, moving their bodies faster, matching the beat. With the speed came even more warmth and that warmth necessitated a change in wardrobe. Hermione's fingers danced across Harry's shoulders, sliding his coat to the ground. Harry's grasped the hem of her jumper helping her pull it up and over her head. Almost feverish with the anticipation of an increased degree of connection, the two collapsed back together. The music played on, but dancing had stopped as Hermione's lips crashed onto Harry's. His hands tangled themselves in her curly locks and as hers frantically undid button after button on his dress shirt. Bare chested Harry detracted himself from Hermione's hair and gathered her up in his arms, carrying her to the queen-sized four-poster located where their three beds had previous resided. He laid her down, disconnecting his lips from hers and relocating them to the pearlescent skin of her stomach, exposed as she tugged off her undershirt.

There was an almost frantic pace to which they disrobed one another. The years they'd spent apart from one another, repressing latent, but undeniable truths felt too heavy to bear now in the presence of one another. Every exhalation was a miasma of released inhibition, every inhalation a consumption of indulgence. There were no words shared between the two as Hermione flipped Harry onto his back, straddling him and joining their bodies together in what felt like the final act of a play too long at intermission. Harry's hands pulled at her hair, crashing her lips against his in an act of almost panicked desperation. Long, pulling twists of her hips ground Hermione against the base of him, and they both shuddered in the pleasure elicited by the movement.

It wasn't long before they both collapsed into a mass of tangled, sweat slicked limbs. Endurance wasn't something their passion had afforded them, but neither seemed to care very much. Harry laid flat in something akin to a stupor, Hermione curled against his side. She was shivering, body still wracked by aftershocks of their simultaneous climax. His eyes closed, Harry pressed his face to the top of her head, planting a gentle kiss and drinking deeply in the scent of Hermione. Her hair smelled of cinnamon, her skin of fresh cut grass. Those, mingled with the thick musk of sex that surrounded them was intoxicating.

They laid together for what could have been hours without moving, just reveling in the perfection that was their coupling. It was Hermione that broke the stillness first, pulling a blanket up and over them as the heat they'd generated together began to fade. Harry's hands traced lines up and down Hermione's side from mid-chest to her thigh. Every time he would reach the small of her back, she'd squirm and kick at his legs playfully.

"Wha-"

"Shh… Please don't. Not right now. Right now you're mine."

"Okay."

Both sets of eyes closed heavily and 'just a little longer' stretched into hours of blissful, dreamless sleep. Sleep better than they'd both had in just under six years.

* * *

 **There we are, my friends. The deed is done! Hope it was as good for you all as it was for me. ;). The moment felt as inevitable to me as it must have to the two of them. In following chapters, I plan on exploring the resulting fallout this situation has placed them in and how our lovers deal with it. Interestingly, I realized in the writing of it that it wasn't the most important part of the story. Originally, I had been attracted to this fic as an expression of latent, repressed desires. I think, however, the story has become more about perspective. Let's see where those perspectives take us, shall we?**


	5. Only One

**Happy Holidays, everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful New Year. Apologies for the relative delay of this chapter. The season is always a hectic one and, very unfortunately, two very close family members just passed away this fall. We're on the other side of 2016, however, and writing has proven extremely cathartic. This is a short one, but I will be looking to publish at a faster clip for future chapters. Enjoy!**

* * *

Red hot heat crackled amidst embers of a fire left untended and alone, swallowed in the dark blue hue of early morning. The silhouette of smoke danced across the front of the tent, painting moving pictures visible from the inside. Harry's sleep filled eyes take in the spectacle wordlessly. They lay in perfect silence, their heartbeats tapping outwards in tandem, almost audible. Hermione's warmth felt as if it had melted his skin, breaking the last physical barrier that existed between the two of them.

Her eyes remained shut, whether she was awake Harry could not tell. Not that it mattered much. The line between conscious and unconscious seemed to have blurred over the past few hours and the pair had alternated between raucous lovemaking and dreamless sleep. With the coming of morning, however, came an eerily familiar sense of disillusionment. Colors that seemed almost too lurid to be real in the heady light of the candles and fire now seemed stripped of their magic. A breath almost too full to be a sigh rose in Harry's chest before being expelled in a gust.

"Be a love and put on the kettle if you're going to keep sighing like that, Harry." Hermione's head didn't move an inch from its position on his chest and he could feel her lips tickle his skin as she spoke.

"Lady or Earl?"

"Dorian."

"Huh?"

"You really need to read more, Harry."

"And you could teach classes on the art of being a broken record."

"S'not my fault you never listen to me…" She yawned and stretched across him, her body moving against his, extending and retracting like a cat's claws.

"Hmph. Accio wand." The slender piece of wood zipped out of the dragonskin holster under his discarded coat and flew across the room to land in his outstretched hand. With a flick of his wrist, a kettle on the portable stove in the corner of the tent danced itself alive and began to fill with water while two bags of tea gracefully settled themselves in a pair of mugs. Hermione looked up and quirked an eyebrow at him, slightly surprised. Harry allowed himself a small smirk.

"Been working on that for a while now, have we?"

"All for the express purpose of impressing you."

"Liar, thief and charlatan." A hand slid down Harry's chest and took shockingly firm hold of a more delicate wand. "Without me, Harry Potter, you'd still have no clue what you wanted." He chuckled deep in his throat.

"Hermione, you really don't understand men if you think you needed to tell me that I wanted to sleep with you." She recoiled ever so slightly and he felt some of her heat begin to cool. "That's not… It was a joke, 'Mione. Just a joke."

"I know."

"Do you?" Her frown softened at the corners of her mouth and she seemed to relax a little. They both sat up, shedding the cloak of their warmth. The two of them lapsed back into silence, this one decidedly more uncomfortable. The sound of the tea kettle shattered their self-conscious contemplation and Harry flicked his wand again, summoning the now steaming mugs. Settling them on a small wooden table beside the bed, he turned back to find Hermione pulling on his discarded button-down shirt. The sight of her in his shirt pulled at something deep inside him, something primal. Lacking adequate words for its description, Harry settled for brushing a thick lock of curly hair behind Hermione's ear.

"How do we…"

"Have this conversation?" He nodded. She rolled her eyes.

"Harry, we've been friends for over a decade. We've saved each other's lives countless times. You've seen me tortured and I watched you die. You've seen me at my absolute worst. On top of all of that, we just shagged each other senseless for the better part of the evening."

"You're saying that like it makes it easier."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not bloody likely."

"Well then, if you're not going to say it, I will." Her hands were softer than they had any right to be considering how hard she worker. Hazel caught green and he knew what she'd say before she'd said it. "I love you, Harry. I'm done with pretending that I can't. To tell you the absolute truth, I've been done for over a month. You asking me to the pub to 'talk'," She smirked. "Was just the last straw."

"I love you, too, 'Mione."

"I know you do, you silly boy."

"So?" Harry gestured around them, pulling away from her gently. "We love each other."

"Seems that way." Hermione reach over Harry, grasping at one the mugs on the bedside table. The motion presented Harry with a view that stripped whatever else he'd been thinking about straight from his mind.

"So how committed are you to continuing to be blasé about this?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Harry. It doesn't suit you." Bergamot scented wisps tickled Harry's nose as he took a sip from his mug.

"Fine. Let's take a page out of your book."

"Meaning?"

"We both state, for the record, what we want. Put everything out in the open."

"Very mature, Harry. I'm impressed."

"You would be." Their rhythm was returning. Harry released some tension in his shoulders that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He caught Hermione's eyes, inside them shone something novel for their relationship. Their frank acceptance of their shared feelings had unlocked something in her, and from the look she was giving him, he had a distinct feeling that he looked awfully similar. It wasn't reminiscent of the vicious, almost animalistic hunger of the past few hours, but a look of liberation. She looked like someone who'd been carrying a heavy burden for far too long and had finally set it down.

"Well, since you're being so sensible now, I'll go first I suppose." Most of her face was hidden behind the mug, her body turned perpendicular to his with her knees tucked up under her chin. It was just enough of a reminder of her surprising flexibility and athleticism to send his heart north and his blood south. Despite the bravado she'd been affecting since the beginning of the conversation, there was a vulnerability to the posture. _'Go careful, you idiot. She's trying harder than you are.'_ Harry thought to himself.

"I'm done, Harry. I'm done with all of it. I don't want a single bloody thing. Just…" She made a point of catching his eyes. "Just you." The last wasn't quite a whisper, but it was close.

"'Mione…"

"Don't, Harry. I know what you're about to say and I don't think I could bear to hear it right now." Harry caught his tongue and held it. He knew there'd be time for that later. "Your turn…" Hermione relinquished her two-handed grip on her tea and grabbed a fistful of blanket, pulling it up and over her shoulders.

"I'm done, too, hun." It slipped loose, but the look on her face made it instantly clear it was the good type of mistake. Hermione relaxed her legs, slid over him, deposited her tea upon the table and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Well, Mister Potter, there is a reward that comes with such a confession of indecent intention."

"Mmmm. Is that so?"

"Indeed…" They crashed against each other like two trains on the same track, limbs writhing like scattered passenger cars. In Harry's, albeit presently limited, analytical mind he knew their coupling would prove almost surely as devastating.


	6. Here Comes The Winner

**Hello, everyone! Hope you all had a lovely week. Enjoy.**

* * *

Harry leaned back into the chair and kicked his legs up on to the edge of the table. This, of course, immediately elicited an exaggerated roll of the eyes from Hermione. She sat, with exquisite poise and posture, in a matching chair across the length of the old wood. Both existed in a state of haphazard dress, as if neither could be bothered to put more than a base effort into reestablishing a sense of propriety between them again.

It, like most of their interactions, had been a silent agreement to put some physical space in between themselves. They both knew that their previous conversation hadn't been an adequate appraisal of their present situation. So, in an effort to stymie the incessant flow of sexual chemistry that seemed to be oozing from both of them, they'd gone to the table. It was proving a marginally effective dam, but Harry could definitely feel a few holes beginning to form with each shift of the blanket Hermione had wrapped around herself.

Tea was not an appropriate beverage for this particular conversation and Harry had spent a moment or two digging through the bag he'd packed before coming up with a bottle of Polish vodka. If they were going to have a hard discussion, it seemed only fitting they consume some hard liquor. Perhaps they could try to harness some of the liquid's clarity for their own use.

"Cups? Or shall we drink like heathens?"

"Heathens." Her smile set him ablaze and Harry wondered at the foolishness that had made him think it would be a good idea to leave a bed he'd occupied with this woman just a few minutes prior. Hermione grabbed the bottle, popped the corked top off with a twist of her wrist and pressed the frosted glass to her lips, drinking deep. If his blood hadn't been so hot for her, Harry would have had a much harder time not chuckling when the effect of the vodka splashing across the back of her throat made Hermione couch and splutter, shaking her head and sliding the bottle across the table with a pained expression.

"Want a mixer? I could apparate to the Co-Op and get some juice for you."

"Oh, just shut up and drink, Harry."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And don't 'yes, ma'am' me. You make me sound like a tyrant." A swig, a grimace, and a subsequent smirk.

"Yes, ma'am." If she kept rolling her eyes like that, she was going to begin looking apoplectic, thought Harry.

The two of them drank for a time, both struggling to begin the conversation they knew they would have to have. As they'd risen from the bed moments before, the sun had been shining through the canvas of the tent. It seemed that the presence of daylight had been as disconcerting for Hermione as it had been for Harry and so an illusion had been cast over the clearing, rendering the appearance of a perpetual starry night. The magic was similar to that which gave the ceiling of the Great Hall in Hogwarts its famous skyscape, but much less complex as it was largely a fixed image, unchanging with the exception of occasional illusory cloud cover. The two had sighed in release, almost in tandem, when the tent had been submerged in darkness again.

After what must have been Harry's fourth drink from the bottle, a small noise from across the table snapped his attention back to the present. Hermione cradled her forehead in the palms of her hands, her elbows resting upon the wooden table top. She shook her head and waved him off as Harry began to get up to comfort her.

"Don't. I'm not crying, Harry."

"I…" Harry unsuccessfully practiced his eloquence.

"How'd we get here? How did we let it get to this point?" A shrug.

"Much like any couple of teenagers stuck in a situation they can't see their way out of, I suppose."

"Yes, but Harry, at the risk of sounding horribly stuck-up…"

"We weren't just 'a couple of teenagers'?" Her face constructed an affirmation. Harry settled back into his chair, swigging at the bottle for the fifth time. This wasn't the conversation he'd been readying himself for, but perhaps that was for the best.

"I can't tell you why you stayed with Ron." Hermione snorted. It was delicate, cute almost, but still decidedly a snort.

"I loved him. In a way, I really did."

"Same."

"With Gin?"

"Yeah. I was quite fond of her once."

"I know. I was horribly jealous." Harry threw an incredulously look Hermione's way which was surprisingly met with stone-cold seriousness. "I mean it."

"Then why not say something?"

"Really? Like it would have been that easy? Just walk up and tell you that I hated the way she looked at you? That it made my skin crawl to see you touch her?" She was shivering slightly now, deep in the memories.

"'Mione…"

"For the past two years, Harry, every time I watched you kiss her I felt a small part of me die inside." Harry's fist slammed into the table, shaking the bottle and the assorted candles. Hearing those words come out of her mouth after the past few hours together proved too much for Harry to bear. He wondered for a moment if they might both be too emotionally raw for this conversation right now. Embarrassment and frustration welled up inside him. The idea that, even ignorant to it, he'd caused Hermione that type of pain drove him to madness. He sighed and shook his head, releasing his clenched fingers and some of the pent-up angst and took another long drink. To her credit, Hermione didn't looked surprised at his outburst. The look she fixed him with was soaked in regret and it sent home just how useless any possible response of his would be. There was nothing either of them could do about the past few years now. _'This is about moving forward.'_ Harry reminded himself.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." The smile was sad, but genuine. It was a smile that reeked of hope, but was born in pain.

"It's worth quite a lot, Harry. Quite a lot." Hermione extended an empty hand across the table, and he slid the bottle her way. She drank without coughing this time, tilting the bottle twice before resting once more on the table. "It's more than just us, though."

"More than what?" She shook her head, pausing to select the right words before continuing.

"I need you, Harry. I need you like this. I always have, I think." Hermione stood up, moved around the circular table and settled down on Harry lap. "But it is more than that. We… we made the wrong choice after the war ended."

"I know. I've been thinking about that a lot lately."

"And?" She looked ready to weigh her conclusions against his and the knowledge of that impending judgment gave Harry a momentary pause.

"We were kids. Young and naïve. The war was a terrible thing, so very terrible. Everything about the war was terrible. Once it was over we could go about doing the things that mad happy successful people happy and successful." Judgement stalled out for a moment in favor of curiosity. Hermione had turned in his arms so that she could look directly at him and had her head cocked ever so slightly to the side in rapt attention. "That's what everyone around us thought for us. The crushing weight of their goodwill made it impossible for us to make our own decisions after The Battle."

"We were drowned in milk and honey." Their eyes met and Harry knew instantaneously that she felt the same way. She snatched the bottle from the table and pressed up to his lips, tilting it and his head backwards. Harry opened his mouth and reveled in the feeling of her laughter on his chest as vodka dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. He swallowed as she brought the mouth of the bottle to her own and sipped slightly. It was his turn to roll his eyes.

"It never occurred to me that I was living someone else's dream."

"So what, pray tell, Mister Potter, is your dream? What is it that _you_ want?" Harry smirked and fished mischievously inside the blanket for some bare flesh.

"Besides this?"

"Well obviously."

"I don't know." Harry answered honestly. "Acknowledging that this," He motioned outward, implying his life beyond the confines of their clearing. "is not it, is about as far as I've gotten." His left arm held onto Hermione, keeping her steady on his lap, while the other spun the vodka bottle on the table in an absent gesture.

"I miss the fear." She said it without an ounce of hesitance.

"How is that possible?"

"You do, too." Silence. "You also probably miss being 'Harry Potter'." If silence could get more silent, Harry made an attempt at it. Hermione tussled his hair gently, the gesture came across more comforting than playful.

"I…"

"I also miss being important, Harry. It's not just you." Hermione took a deep breath before continuing. "I was your ''Mione'." A wetness welled in the corners of her hazel eyes. "That was something I didn't know I'd needed so badly until I didn't have it any longer. The feeling that it was you and me against the world. I was yours and you were mine and that was all we needed."

Harry wrapped both arms around her, pulling Hermione in close and placing delicate kisses across her forehead.

"The fear gave us purpose, Harry. It made us rise to greater challenges and meet them with greater conviction than anything we've done from that point forward." The words were whispered, but the delivery was strong and steady. "That's who we were and it's who we are supposed to be now. Somewhere along the way..."

"We lost sight of it." Harry's mouth found the exposed skin at Hermione's collarbone and pressed his lips to the pale softness. Hermione's hands found their way to his hair once again and Harry could feel her rest her head against the top of his. He drank deeply in the scent of her before pressing onward.

"Okay, so how? Short of resurrecting Riddle, how do we get back to that place, 'Mione?" She retreated from him just far enough to catch his eyes again.

"That's it? You're not going to fight me on this lunacy?" Harry fought off the urge to shrug his shoulders for what felt like the thousandth time since he'd started thinking about this topic.

"It's like you said. I could continue to lie to myself and deny that I miss those things, but what's the point? Trudging forward with a life that has me feeling like a caged animal?" Harry planted a chaste kiss on Hermione's coral lips. "No… I think not. I believe I'm finally ready to start accepting hard truths again." Her expression was a mixture of desperate happiness and deep arousal upon hearing his confession. Feminine hips pivoted and slid against his, slender legs wrapping around Harry and the back of the chair he sat in.

"Well, my dear Mister Potter, if we want to make an omelet, we're going to need to break a few eggs."

* * *

 **Until next time, friends. 3**

 **\- Hush**


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